February 27, 2024
After morning coffee and sending off my wife, I wrote for two hours before heading into the woods for my morning walk. The day was sunny but cool. As I proceeded quietly through the grove, the familiar echoes of geese sounded overhead. I stopped to look at the pear tree blossoms. In another week, the white flowers would decorate the entire grove.
The empty crop field had turned green, and I was sure that planting season was just around the corner. My first year here, this field was full of tobacco, and last year, it was used to farm soybeans. We would find out what was planted this year, but I hoped it would be soybeans, as the crop attracted several deer herds.
I continued along the trail toward Beaver Tooth Rock, noting how cold the air still felt. The creek area was quiet except for the muted thumping of a downy woodpecker hidden in the nearby trees. A second flock of geese passed overhead as I climbed up onto the large rock. The three eggs that sat there yesterday were gone. I checked the trail camera and watched a shaggy raccoon scurry off. Soon after, a small red fox arrived and devoured the eggs. The foxes seem to love eggs. Last year, a trail camera near the grove captured a single fox hauling off a dozen eggs, one by one.
I observed a large tree growing in the middle of the ravine that housed the creek. Its dark red flowers contrasted sharply against the bright blue sky. Looking around, I saw several more of the red trees lining the creek’s bank. After a few minutes, I moved westward, where I recently saw an otter. I found a place with a good view, where I could see a small network of adjoining streams. In front, a large tulip tree faced me with its light colored bark covered in bright green moss. A bird sounded, but I did not recognize its song.
As I sat at the location, I remembered an incident that happened in this same spot last summer. The place offered a marvelous view of the creek with its large fallen trees that created small bridges full of mosses and mushrooms. I stopped to take a photograph and while looking through the camera’s viewfinder; I heard a loud rustling in the trees above me. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw something hit the ground with a loud thud a few feet away. The tall summer grasses obscured my view, so I moved in closer to see what had fallen. Was it a squirrel? To my surprise, I saw a large black rat snake. That’s when I learned that several species of snakes on the property are avid climbers. Falling snakes. Good god.
When I arrived home, I walked into the pasture, noticing purple flowers carpeted a large section of the open field. Yesterday, a pair of hawks were feeding near the barn, so I inspected the area to see if there was a carcass. I found nothing. Perhaps the raccoons, foxes, or coyotes drug away the remains.
During my lunch break, I made a quick run to the Piggly Wiggly in Bailey. In the parking lot, I saw multiple emergency vehicles and paramedics tending an old woman in her car. The cashier told me the woman had passed out, fallen, and broken a tooth. The paramedics’ decision to let her drive home alone shocked the worker. Everyone was concerned and curious. In a small town, there’s a fine line between hospitality and nosiness.
After work, I finished writing yesterday’s journal entry, which touched on the heavy subject of loss. After, I needed some time in the woods alone. In the pine grove, the herd of larger deer I saw yesterday were feeding. I stepped into my ground blind to watch them, but they left once they caught my scent. I stayed inside the blind and gathered my thoughts, trying to make sense of my feelings.
Losing my aunt and knowing my childhood friend had lost his daughter uncovered memories of other losses. A few years ago, a good friend passed away. I was very close to his family. Further back were the losses of my nephew and a brother. Once a person dies, they no longer suffer, but those who remain must deal with the severity and permanence of loss.
There’s a strange experience that happens when you lose someone or something you love. There’s no other event in life that exposes us to that level of helplessness. We are powerless to bring that person back. As time moves forward, we don’t get to create new memories with them. And the remembrances we hold fade with time.
It’s like trying so save someone’s life by filling up an ever-widening gap with something that keeps disappearing. The inevitability of failure leads to a sense of hopelessness that can consume our lives. Surely, the ones we lose wouldn't wish for us to live this way. We know this because we can imagine that if we died, we would want our loved ones to live fully and be happy. Our wish for them would be adamant instruction to march forward and suck out all of life’s marrow while they could.
And so, one day, the whole situation reduces to a single decision. We can go on living or we can allow another’s literal death to become our figurative end. Moving on means the unthinkable, that we would allow ourselves to be happy once again. While this path seems obvious and wholesome, it can feel like a betrayal of the one we lost. Knowing the wishes of those who have passed grants us permission to move forward towards acceptance. We learn to embrace the understanding that, although life goes on, it will never be the same. And that change can either be one that destroys or deepens our lives. This is the human experience of love and loss. Nature is both beautiful and severe beyond our comprehension.
Sitting alone at the creek, the frogs sang as the sun set. Were their songs full of happiness or sorrow? I knew the question was pointless. A type of smearing small human ideas on something that was much larger. Still, I wondered where the frog’s song came from. Frogs were born, reproduced, and died. This linear cycle of life somehow passed on the frog’s behaviors through a mechanism we labeled instinct. Teaching these behaviors was unnecessary. It was all prepackaged, infused into their DNA. Frogs sang at sunset, as that was their nature. The song was an innate, subconscious memory that preceded their personal experience or awareness. Where did this instinctive memory come from?
And what of human instincts? Were those formed from some primitive past? Were they the key to our future, a returning to a simpler self? Or were instincts simply an honest reflection of our true being? Despite ample light for walking home, I donned my headlamp to observe the reflecting spiders. During my journey back, I spotted several shining eyes, pausing to greet them.
After a shower, I crawled into bed, placing my hand on my wife’s leg, keeping her close throughout the night.